


And more besides.

by raiyana



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A Yuletide Gift, Dwarven Crafting, Friendship, Gen, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:02:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28109781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: The new Lord of Aglarond is a busy Dwarf - but he still finds pleasure in the work of his hands and the company of those closest to him.A story of friendship, and gift-giving, and making a joyful thing, and two different peoples reaching out to one another.
Relationships: Gimli & Sibling, Éomer Éadig & Gimli (Son of Glóin)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	And more besides.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kuiske](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuiske/gifts).



> Much gratitude to bunn for the beta and moral support (and the guttermind xD)

The roughness of the cast shape smoothed beneath careful fingers, revealing the swiftness of a galloping horse; a fitting thing to gift a Horselord, indeed.

A fitting tribute to a friend.

The horse was one he had come to know well these past years, though Firefoot was older now than when he had first seen the mount and its rider thunder across the plains, man and horse as one – there was beauty in it, even if Gimli preferred to have his own feet much closer to the ground than could be managed upon a horse.

He kept it warm, warm enough for his fingers and tools to shape, yet cool enough for the shape to hold as he transformed the silver into an echo of Firefoot’s lustrous grey coat, tiny crosshatchings adding a pleasing roughness that tricked the eye into seeing what he had once seen in the shimmer of sunlight upon strong flanks.

The silver was sweet to his touch, playful as he shaped it, smoothing away the bits that had clung most tightly to the mould and bringing out the pure gleam of the metal. He smiled, almost wanting to laugh at the playfulness of the work; he rarely worked silver, now, his time far better spent elsewhere. He had earned the rings in his lip marking his tongue especially silver, after all, he thought, touching his tongue to one. Still sore, but healing well; a mark of honour worn with pride. The two small rings had been set after he had finally found the perfect crystal to hold the silver-gold hair of Lady Galadriel – not his first victory as a diplomat, but certainly one of his greater achievements, _that_ barter.

Gimli Silvertongue, he was, now, Lord of Aglarond in his own right, and Lords rarely had time to pursue crafts purely for the joy of it, if the joy wasn’t statecraft in the first place like old Balin. For a moment, his joy soured with grief, but then he shook off the melancholy and returned to his work, careful hands rejoicing in the feel of the warm metal.

“It will please,” Vardís said, looking over his shoulder as she set a small bowl of stew on his table accompanied by a stein of the good ale she had brought from Erebor.

Gimli tried not to jump off his seat, turning his head to glare at his unrepentant sister’s smug smile as he tried to calm his rapid heart.

“That is my hope,” he replied, setting the horse on the even surface of his workspace.

It stood, perfectly balanced – he had known it would, but still the sight was satisfying.

“It _will_ ,” Vardís chuckled, pressing her lips to his cheek fondly. “Even if your friend has no knowledge of the workings of silver, this thing will please his eye, I am sure.”

 _And if it doesn’t, he’s obviously blind_ , her tone added, making Gimli smile at his little creation. He did think Éomer would be pleased, but offering a gift to a King would never be aught but a bit nerve-wracking no matter how many royals he counted among his kin and friends both.

And Éomer had become a friend, these past years of beginning work in Aglarond, both of them finding their feet as leaders together in a way; Gimli knew far more of Éomer’s vexations with his councillors than said councillors would probably have liked, able to both offer advice and commiseration with the young king’s troubles.

Vardís tapped the spoon against the rim of the bowl, bringing Gimli out of his own thoughts. “Eat before it gets cold,” she admonished. “Or I shall inform Amad that her precious son is starving in his new realm.”

“I’m eating, I’m eating!” Gimli replied, hastily shovelling a spoonful of the – admittedly delicious and very welcome after a long day of work – stew into his mouth. It settled warmly in his belly, making him realise just how hungry he’d become.

“Perhaps I shall not need to unleash Amad’s wrath on you then, nadad,” Vardís grinned, pinging her fingernail once against the cuff on his ear. “But I make no promises.”

Gimli groaned.

“Why did I invite you here again?” he groused.

Vardís only laughed, far too sure of herself to believe him truly vexed by her teasing. “Because you make shite ale, brother,” she offered. “And because I am nice enough to bring you what you need from Erebor without fleecing you in the bargain. Mostly.”

Gimli’s face broke into a smile. He had missed the little rascal.

“Will you join me?” he offered, gesturing at the already half-empty bowl.

“Everyone else already ate, brother-mine,” Vardís sang. “The sun fell beyond the sea three notches ago – though I will share a drink with you, if it pleases.”

“You always please me with your company, little sister,” Gimli replied, too seriously to let the words land quite so teasingly as he had intended.

“I am delightful,” Vardís nodded sagely, picking up her own stein – he hadn’t noticed her carrying two and Gimli wondered just how tired he really was to have missed it – and clinking it gently against his. “Your health!”

“And yours,” Gimli nodded, swallowing back a mouthful of _home_ with a pleased hum.

Vardís’ smile was smug but Gimli let her have it; she was right that the ale brewed with the grain grown in Rohan was not so good as that made in Erebor – or at least not quite as much to his liking.

“Can I go with you?” Vardís asked, suddenly looking a little apprehensive. “When you go to the Man King in his Halls.” She glanced over her shoulder; the settlement was not yet large, but Gimli knew she was thinking about the full contingent of warriors their parents had deemed it necessary to send as her escort. “I know Amad won’t,” she added, grimacing. Gimli knew she often felt smothered – and he certainly had, when he was younger – longing for the freedoms of a young adult. It was not for him to claim their parents mistaken, but Vardís was grown now, no longer a pebble in arms and wiser than he had been at her age, too. “– but I want to see them; you tell me such stories of your friends!”

Gimli had missed some of her words lost in thought, though he could guess the gist of them; in some ways she had always reminded him of Éowyn – or perhaps Éowyn had made him see her anew – that same feeling of yearning for something beyond what she knew, beyond the constraints set by the fears of others.

Their parents would have hesitated, but Gimli simply nodded. “You may,” he agreed. “I think they will like you.”

He wanted to see the look on Éowyn’s face when introduced to her first Dwarf woman – his colony had attracted a fair few miners and others, but he had only brought his scribe and his chief advisor along to meet with the Rohirrim so far, and they both presented themselves as males.

“Good,” Vardís nodded, draining her ale with a pleased expression. “I already made my craft.”

“It is not Khebabnurtamrag, Vardís,” Gimli cautioned, but Vardís just shrugged. “It is Yule, a solstice celebration.”

“It would feel wrong to have made naught at all this winter,” she said. “Even if I shall not return home until well after the Presentations are done – and it’s only polite to bring a gift to a King, is it not?” That stubborn lift to her chin and the way she looked at him as though daring him to argue made her look so much like their mother that for a moment Gimli felt returned to his own younger self being scolded for some infraction or other.

“I do love you, sister-mine,” Gimli chuckled, though he knew better than to remark on the resemblance. “And you may bring a gift for the King if it pleases you.”

“Good. Then I shall.”

* * *

The green paints were made from finely ground stone – Erebor’s green stone, a small touch of his own home that felt right to add to this gift – and Gimli painted it on carefully; the blanket was made from silver hammered into shape until it could rest flush against the back of his small horse, the lines of it appearing to be fabric and inlaid with tiny flecks of nacre in the shape of simbelmynë. The saddle and the rider had been crafted separately; the thin leather had been far more difficult to work than when he had first conceived of the project, but Gimli was pleased with the result. The rider, of course, had been decked in the finest armour he could possibly make in miniature, carefully carving the silver body to look like chainmail. His cloak, too, was made of silver painted green, though the inlay was gold shaped in the sun symbol of Rohan, and Gimli’s careful brushwork seemed to match the exact green of the Rohirrim cloaks perfectly. The lower face had been sculpted with care though it was almost hidden by the silver helmet crowned by a horses tail made from a lock of Éomer’s own hair that he had snagged the last time the King had visited.

Éomer was a better drinking partner than most Men, after all, and Gimli quite enjoyed their informal chats over a mug of mead. Of course, he still hadn’t mastered holding his ale against a Dwarf – Gimli still remained convinced that Legolas had cheated somehow – which made clipping a bit of hair little trouble.

It had occurred to him – much later – that Éomer probably would have given him some hair if he’d simply asked, but Gimli had been seized by the moment and he rather liked the thought of surprising his friend with the small gift. The Rohirrim worked some silver, though not much; they hadn’t a history of minework, and the metal was precious enough on its own, but the way it had been turned was what made it a kingly gift, Gimli thought, studying the piece as he polished parts that already gleamed in the light of his lamp.

Even if he said so himself, the horse and rider were a masterpiece of silverwork and inlay both, and when he had put the final dab of colour onto the cloak, he stretched with a satisfied groan, rolling his shoulders to release the stiffness.

The small statue rode swiftly across his workshop, and Gimli knew that if he had been in Erebor, it would have earned a nod and a purse of silver from his King at Presentation.

And to Éomer, it would carry greater meaning still.

He smiled, nodding to himself. It would please.


End file.
